


Flirted With You All My Life

by Anonymous



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting, Forced Orgasm, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 08:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30136629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You don’t get sick of that?”She hadn’t been sleeping, so Andy couldn’t pretend she didn’t hear what Booker heard through the tent wall, or know what it was.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre
Kudos: 2
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	Flirted With You All My Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnabelleVeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelleVeal/gifts).



> Well, it was supposed to be longer (isn't it always), but I hope you like this, AnnabelleVeal! 
> 
> Title is from a [Vic Chestnut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4Z-kjr4BLs%22) song of the same name, and it is real gut punch, but I think it captures what draws Andy and Book together. Also [this is more or less](https://64.media.tumblr.com/17207fa9d804db6fa82d7af8d29e9182/da9d15b6a98d7132-82/s540x810/e82aecc643fc05263475e3b8214e5170262d1995.gifv) my vibe for them.

1863

“You don’t get sick of that?” 

She hadn’t been sleeping, so Andy couldn’t pretend she didn’t hear what Booker heard through the tent wall, or know what it was. She’d tried telling them that they needed to be more careful—more subtle—but they’d rolled their eyes at her. _What will they do?_ Joe had asked with a smirk. _Kill us?_

She knew what _they_ could do. Joe and Nicky knew it, too, but it the middle of a war, who was really looking or listening? Or if they were, they were less inclined to do anything about it.

So they fucked in Nicky’s tent, with rows of Union soldiers on either side of them. 

Technically, Booker was to their right, and Andy to his right, but here, on the road to Gettysburg, they were all practically on top of each other. 

“They have phases,” she whispered back. Months and years when their ardor cooled, and they appeared more like best friends or close brothers, joined souls walking together through life. Then, often before battle, it would return, and she could hardly tell where one ended and the other began, so tightly were they wound around one another. “But the answer is yes.” Sometimes she hated them for what they had, when she had lost so much. 

She imagined Booker was feeling something similar. 

At the sound of a soft, muffled moan, Andy couldn’t stop the flood of images she’d accumulated over the centuries, mostly by accident but not always. 

In the tent next to hers, Booker grumbled and shifted around. He’d been with them a scant fifty years, still practically a child. Only not. No one who’d fought and died and come back, only to bury his own children could ever call themselves one. Andy certainly had no right to. 

With a grunt, she sat up. Maybe the metallic tang of battle hanging in the air was getting to her, too. And she didn’t want thoughts of Nicky’s pale, skinny ass haunting her all night. Shifting forward onto her knees, she flung the flap of her tent aside and crawled out. The cool of the grass on her knees and the soles of her feet only heightened her awareness of the night—the smell of cookfires and a nearby creek, the sounds of horses and a few voices rumbling nearby, hopefully masking Nicky and Joe’s sounds. 

When she tossed open the flap of Booker’s tent, he sat up with a sharp, hissing intake of breath, his white undershirt bright to her eyes, adjusted to the low starlight. With the summer heat, he slept on top of his bedroll in his drawers. They weren’t as white as his shirt. Her gaze twitched from them back up to his face shrouded in shadow.

He shifted back on his bedroll, which she took as her invitation. Slipping into the tent with him, she let the flap drop closed behind her. 

“I don’t want to talk after,” she murmured. “Or ever.”

“Fine,” Booker said. “Why would I want to talk?” He was working on his American accent, but here, he let it slip. He reached for her hip and she pushed him down onto his back, walking her knees over him and up to his armpits. 

“You seem the type,” she answered. “I don’t know, it was just a hunch.”

He rested his arms on her thighs, traced his thumbs up to the join between her legs, and hooked his fingers in the waist of her drawers. “Not entirely off,” he replied. “But this doesn’t seem the place.”

She left her shirt on, because taking it off would show him her bound chest, and since they were about to fuck, he’d probably want to see her breasts. He’d want to touch them, and Andy could not be bothered. Here, in this camp, she was a man just like everyone else. 

If she wanted to get anything out of this, though, she’d have to get out of her underclothes. 

Or not… 

He undid the buttons at the front of her drawers and opened them wide, baring her to the night air and the warmth of his breath. And even though she couldn’t make out the details of his face, his eyes somehow sparked in the darkness of the tent as he slid his hands to her ass and drew her forward onto his mouth. 

She smothered the shocked sound of pleasure in her throat as his tongue pressed her open and slid inside, and she flailed around for something to grab onto. But there was only the tentpole above her, and if she latched onto that she could bring the whole thing down on top of them. 

Booker curled his tongue in her, then flicked her peak with the kind of expert precision she generally associated with the French. He did it again—and again—and when she exhaled sharply and tried to shy away, he tightened his grip on her ass and held her steady. He closed his mouth over her cunt and sucked in a rhythm that pulled her hips into it. She rode his face with one hand fisted in his hair and the other braced against her thigh.

He was relentless, his eyes steady on her, watching her shake apart. Breathing through the pleasure, she saw no point in holding out, and yet she resented him just a little for shoving her so quickly into this state of barely contained frenzy, and so easily deciding exactly what she needed—she, a creature with a fathomless well of experiences reaching back through the centuries. 

Pinching her lip fiercely between her teeth, a soft, low sound escaped her throat as the ripples of climax emanating from her core strengthened into waves. She hunched forward over him, releasing his hair to twist her knuckles in his bedroll and letting him hold her through it, his mouth drawing out one contraction after the next until she twitched and gasped above him. Her muscles wanted to turn to soup but for the pressure of his mouth, so she wrenched herself out of his grip and backed down the length of his body where she found him straining against his drawers. 

Not bothering to slide her own off both legs, she left them twisted around one knee, opened the buttons of his one-handed and sank down onto him. With a glare, she reached up and firmly covered his mouth with her palm, just as a shout would have burst from his throat. 

“My turn,” she murmured.

He wasn’t all that thick or long, which was her preference. She’d never liked big dicks. Still, with her insides thick and swollen, he filled her up perfectly, pleasant shivers of muscle making her smile in the dark. 

Clenching down, she dragged upward until just the crown of his dick tugged at her walls, and she held herself there, riding just that swell of flesh. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm and his eyes on her were a little less steady, a little more feverish. He grasped restlessly at her forearms and biceps, as though unsure where or if to touch her. Andy wasn’t sure if she wanted him to, either. 

She plunged down once and dragged slowly back up so that she hovered there again. She let the gentle shape of him bring her slowly back around until the pull of the head of his cock against her flesh brought an ache of pleasure that warmed her all the way down the insides of her thighs. She took her time there in that territory between blind pleasure and control when she knew she shouldn’t. These tent walls were barely even the illusion of privacy. 

He’d begun to tremble beneath her, a torture similar to the one he’d inflicted earlier upon her evident in the shadows of his face. He was drawn taught as a bow, his hands twisted in the bedroll, as though he knew not to grab her that hard—even if, now, she wanted him to. 

Needing that extra push to finish, Andy slid her hand between their bodies. She crushed her hips flush to his and rubbed her fingers on either side of him, a pleasure deeper and wider than that drawn from his mouth taking shape. She clenched around him, and he made a desperate sound of warning against the hand she still had across his mouth before his hips jack-rabbited up against her and stilled. He buried himself so that she felt him pulse in her.

“Stay right there,” she whispered, and he held himself flexed tight against her. She ground against her fingers a few more times before tipping over the edge. This time she had to turn and bury a groan in the meat of her shoulder, that deep, wide pleasure in danger of giving them away completely. 

With a sigh, she went boneless against his chest. Not sure when she’d taken her hand from his mouth, she impulsively leaned up and covered his lips again, this time with her own. It was a sloppy, slow kiss—one that seemed to take Booker unawares at first until his fingers traced the bumps at the top of her spine, then her neck, and finally sank into her hair. 

It was when he touched her waist and started to curl his arm around her that she remembered where they were. She remembered herself. 

On a sharp inhale, she broke the kiss and pushed herself upright, swinging her leg off him in an economical motion. He hissed at her abrupt departure and sat up—a sound and motion very similar to the one he’d made at her arrival. There was a mess dripping out of her, but she at least had nothing else to worry about on that front. A body that died and came back as hers did couldn’t grow another inside it. Not that she thought Booker had fathered any children since the death of his own. 

Yanking her pants back on would always be awkward, and she kept her eyes lowered for the task. To keep herself from slinking away a complete coward, though, she shot him a brief look as she did up the buttons on her drawers. “No talking, remember?” she whispered.

Booker lifted his hands and shrugged. “I didn’t say anything.” 

_She_ shouldn’t have said anything. He was definitely smiling now. 

“Let’s keep it that way, all right?”

He tipped his chin up in a short nod, though whether it was in agreement or mockery or only in farewell, she wasn’t certain. Just to make sure it didn’t matter, she left.

*

She managed to stay away for a few years. And a few years again after that. Never more than a few, though. 

And sometimes much less. 

2021

He went back to Paris, even though Copley offered his guest room until he got himself sorted. He offered to keep Sebastian in the know on the group’s missions and whereabouts. But Sebastian’d never had any grand ambitions toward saving the world. All he’d wanted was a place to belong. He’d needed to be with those who understood his suffering.

Only he hadn’t, and they hadn’t. Joe and Nicky delighted in the eternity they shared. And Andy—not even Andy had understood his motives in the end. One look at Nile and she had that fucking glow, the one he’d never gotten to see because Quynh was already gone by the time Andy had found him. Joe and Nicky had described it instead. Joe and Nicky still had it.

Even shot and bleeding on Copley’s rug, she had more fire than he’d ever seen. More than she’d ever shown with him, not when they fucked, not in the quiet moments after, before she left. When he’d thought for sure he’d catch a glimpse of it.

No, he wasn’t torturing himself with James Copely. Let James ease his guilt however he could. Let Nile be the moral compass. Let Joe and Nicky reinvent romance every other decade. Let Andy go grey, grow old, and die in peace.

Jesus-fuck, who was he kidding? He wanted to be there for it. He wanted her to break his heart when she left, partly because he thought that kind of grief would finally replace the ache left by his first family, but also because he couldn’t bear to go the rest of her life without touching her again. Even if he never brought that fire to her. He obviously wasn’t the type, anyway.

When his phone chirped, and a number he had hoped but not expected to see let him know they were just across the water in their London hideout, Sebastian smiled.

He might not be the type, but maybe Andy liked him that way.


End file.
